


Blame it on a Rush of Blood to the Head

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris wants to talk about Kirk and McCoy’s ‘motivation’.</p><p> </p><p>Intriguing snippet: <i>“Karl?”</i></p><p><i>“Hmm?” </i></p><p><i>“I’ve been thinking—”</i></p><p><i>Karl’s eyebrows become one. No, not <i>that</i>, Chris wants to say, but can’t, so he carries on. “I’ve been thinking about Kirk, about McCoy –”<br/></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on a Rush of Blood to the Head

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a prompt where anon asked for Karl/Chris to role-play Jim/Bones.  
> Title from the Coldplay song ‘A Rush of Blood to the Head’
> 
> Thanks to emiliglia for beta reading.

**Blame it on a rush of blood to the head**

When Chris’ cab pulls up outside his apartment building, his face jolts away from the window, and he wakes up with a start. He rubs the drool off the side of his chin, searches for his phone on the back seat and gives the driver his account number.

It’s 2am, and he has to blink a few times until he dares embark on the seemingly long walk to the front door. It’s made more complicated by how his feet are a beat or two behind his brain’s alcohol-doused instructions. He pulls his denim jacket tight – partly to steady himself, partly against the chill air – and finally slumps to a halt on the step.

His phone buzzes.

 _On my way_

Good, that means Karl’s only half an hour behind him. The big goofball can’t pull himself away from JJ’s wrap party; it sorta makes sense. It’s the last time the cast will be together, at least until the press storm sweeps in and smothers them, but _still_ … Surely the prospect of hot sex would have enticed Karl into a cab right behind him. Maybe if he’d taken that opportunity to grope Karl by the pool, had left him hard, maybe then…

Chris’ scalp prickles; he has no idea what this means, but he’s hoping very sweet coffee and some of that leftover cheesecake will fix him.

He doesn’t text back, instead fumbles with his keys and drops them; bending channels a rush of blood to his head which makes him momentarily nauseated. He edges back up, very slowly, sliding his hands up the door, and uses the handle to steady himself.

Chris considers this; he _shouldn’t_ take offense at how Karl doesn’t hurry to meet up, but he’s still adjusting to the way Karl’s there but never _there_.

This whole ‘seeing’ a guy thing is completely new to Chris, and he hasn’t decided whether he likes it or not. Sure, he likes _Karl_ a whole lot, his company, the fucking amazing sex, but he doesn’t like not knowing where he stands. And doesn’t that just piss him off? He’s never been one to give half a thought to this bullshit; until _this_ , whatever it is, he’s been too focused on his career, his family, his books and his friends to see any fuck-buddy as more than that. But this, he realizes with an uncomfortable clarity, is one big mind-fuck.

But hey, _nil_ fucking _desperandum_ ; at least it’s given him some insight into the woman’s side of those terse conversations he’s suffered; the ones that always start with a tentative, “What are you thinking--?” and end with, “Let’s keep in touch.” And Chris _is_ hungry to understand human nature – it’s his job after all.

He fists the key into the lock and barges the door open with his knee. The air’s stifling inside – he really should upgrade his life, get some air-con.

And anyway, he and Karl, they aren’t ‘seeing’ each other, technically, so Chris knows he’s got no right to _say_ or even _think_ anything.

It’s just a bit of fun – the kind of fun that comes with a serving of ice running down Chris’ spine when he allows himself to think about the long weeks ahead – when everyone, _Karl_ , will break up for fucking _months_.

Chris hopes his fingers can remember the combo for the burglar alarm. If he thinks too hard about it, he’ll—

“ _Shit_!”

He winces when his keys and phone clatter on the hall table. Maybe it’s best not to switch the lights on yet, not until he’s had at least two cups of coffee. He dumps his jacket, kicks off his sneakers, tosses his socks on top and pads towards the French windows to let in some air.

Four cigarettes in the ashtray, two cups of coffee, a belly-full of cheesecake and _fifty_ minutes later (so the light on the stove tells him), Chris hears a cab pull up outside.

Chris has become accustomed to how his heart races before, during, whenever they meet up, but he’s still feeling pretty juiced and regrets not taking it easy, maybe thinking about how he might not be able to _do_ anything once Karl is all his for a few hours. It’s a relief when fears he might not get hard are dispelled the moment he pulls the door open, and _there_ he is, eyebrow raised, lopsided smile on his face, swaying ever so slightly on the step. Chris’ stomach flutters. His cock stirs.

“Hi,” he says, hands in his pockets, ‘cause he can be the master of nonchalance. On the outside.

“Hi,” Karl says, his eyes all good humor but his grin unadulterated intent, “you seem a bit…”

Thrilled to fucking see you? Pissed at you? Hard as a brick? What? Karl’s voice, that _accent_ , instantly threads through Chris’ chest like an evil spell he doesn’t ever want to break.

“A bit _what_?”

Chris scans Karl’s face, licks his lips.

“Drunk?” Karl says.

He glances over his shoulder to the street and nudges Chris gently backwards so they’re enveloped by the dark hallway. He kicks the door shut behind them and twists Chris around until he’s pressed against it, still with his hands in his pockets, still trying – give him some credit – not to give away that he’s concerned about how long he’s waited and worried he’ll come in his pants with Karl’s finger inching up his chest to the dip at his throat.

Chris squeaks a little, and he twitches his hips infinitesimally. An all too familiar feeling of awkwardness floods through him, and he’s grateful that, given the poor light, Karl probably can’t make out how pink his neck and chest must be – damned fair skin, damned high school hormone levels.

Karl leans close, placing his feet on either side of Chris’ bare toes so he’s penned in on all sides. They’re the same height, yet he seems to tower over Chris – must be booze fucking with his mind or something.

“Pot—” Karl’s voice rumbles teasingly close to his mouth, his hand resting at the nape of Chris’ neck, “Kett—” and his lips smother Chris’; beer and brandy and cigarettes mingle with sweet and dirty tongue; a large hand twists at his shirt collar, pulling their mouths closer, while the other’s fumbling at Chris’ waistband, dragging his shirt up over his belly. His tongue’s pushing forward at the same time as he flattens his hand, slides it, knuckles to skin, down, down, and when Chris gasps, the hand settles in his pubic hair. _Fuck – don’t stop now_.

“I guess,” Chris manages to mumble back, willing him to keep going.

Karl worries at Chris’ bottom lip and chuckles, licks at Chris’ chin, leans back to look at him then shoves his thumb hard into Chris’ mouth. Chris sucks, closing his eyes because, seriously, they’re _burning_ at the sight of Karl’s predatory look.

Chris is acutely aware of the sound of his panting and finds it a horrible turn-on, how he’s so lost already. He can smell Karl’s aftershave and is torn between rolling his face in his chest and pulling away, knowing damn well _who_ must have bought it; Karl’s not the kind of guy he can picture standing in front of a perfume counter.

“You smell like a girl—” Chris mutters, trying to distract himself from _that_ train of thought by playing the smart-ass.

“Considering the time you spend chin-deep in some of the world’s most beautiful women,” Karl whispers into his ear, “I’ll take that as the compliment it’s surely intended to be, Mr. I Can’t Hold My Drink.” Then his teeth graze Chris’ throat, the heat of his mouth stirring up every nerve ending.

At some point, Chris must have found space between their entwined bodies because he’s managed to wriggle his hands from his pockets, and they’re clinging to Karl’s shirt.

There – Karl’s finally decided to stop the torture, and his thumb brushes across the head of Chris’ cock over and over, and Chris really needs to move, do something, _contribute_ , but he’s like a trapped animal in the net of this warm, scolding voice.

“Been thinking about this all night, Chris,” his name is a hiss in Karl’s mouth. “Thinking about touching you like this – you made me _very_ uncomfortable.”

“I did? Sorry…?” They both know he’s not.

“I’ll have to get you back for that, you know, right?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Want me to fuck you?”

No, your knees are _not_ going to buckle, Chris tells himself when he’s shoved against the wall again, Karl’s knee pushing up between his legs, kissing him thoroughly, sucking his tongue into his mouth to the root, their teeth bumping as hungry lips move and slide.

“I’m that easy to read, huh?” He finally manages to gasp out, and Karl chuckles into his jaw then nips down to his Adam’s apple, all teeth and tongue and vice-like grip. “I… _shit_ …am entirely oblivious to your Kiwi charm…ngh—”

He gasps into Karl’s mouth when he retrieves his hand and guides Chris to the bedroom, one hand on the waistband of his jeans, the other down the back of his boxers, teasing his cheeks.

“I need the light on,” Chris says, the dark of the black-out blinds, there because he just can’t seem to sleep well these days, affecting his pickled sense of balance. He waits until Karl flips the switch on the lamp before flopping onto the bed, and he watches Karl open the drawer and retrieve the lube. He kneels between Chris’ thighs, drops the tube on the pillow, and slowly unbuttons Chris’ shirt, peeling the two sides apart like Chris is a fruit he’s going to devour. Chris pushes his tongue along the inside of his lip and waits, eyes on Karl’s face the whole time, while he unzips his jeans.

“Shit I’m drunk—” he says unnecessarily.

“We’ve already established that.” Karl's face is in shadow, and he looks a little bit evil. He sits back on his heels so he can remove his jacket and shirt. Chris’ brains turn to mush at the bronzed skin, the hair on Karl’s chest and the pert nipples. He smoothes his hands across Karl’s taut stomach, heat pooling in his cock when he sees how Karl’s chewing his lip, just watching his face.

He’s confused by Karl; wonders how someone so rugged can look so feminine, with those big, dark eyes, those plush fucking lips – but the nostrils, yep - all man, as is – _oh_ – his lovely, long cock Chris has begun to work out of the suit pants, lack of co-ordination or not. He feels Karl’s hips rock towards him and takes a sadistic pleasure in the hiss above him.

“Your bloody hands are dead cold!” Karl says, closing his eyes.

“Well, you know what they say?”

“I can guess – something about cold hands warm coc— _Jesus_.”

They’re silent for a few minutes as Chris jerks his wrist, kind of forgetting his own cock, transfixed by the abandoned expression on Karl’s face.

They roll onto their sides so they can finish undressing each other. Chris strokes Karl’s wrists as he unbuttons Chris’ jeans, works them down his thighs, his mouth nipping, following the drag of denim down Chris’ thighs, over his knees. Karl’s kneeling on the bed, taking a second to drink in the sight of Chris lying there, waiting, wanting with his jeans bunched around his ankles.

“Pretty, little fuck,” he groans, yanking the last of Chris’ clothing away. He leans in for a kiss, and they both moan with relief, hands stroking over yards of warm, hair-covered skin and muscle until Karl breaks away to stand by the bed. His unblinking gaze on Chris, he drops his pants and boxers, narrowing his eyes at the way Chris contemplates his erect cock, which stands almost straight out, a slight incline to the right, pale in the semi-lit room.

Chris parts his thighs, bends his legs so his ankles are close to his ass and spreads his arms out across the unmade bed, offering everything he’s got to this beautiful man.

“Karl?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking—”

Karl’s eyebrows become one. No, not _that_ , Chris wants to say, but can’t, so he carries on. “I’ve been thinking about Kirk, about McCoy –”

Karl smiles, sits by his feet and runs a nail along the inside of Chris’ thigh, kneading his balls gently. “What about them?” He lowers his mouth to Chris’ knee and begins to lick at the skin, edging closer, closer.

Chris leans up on his elbows. “Who do you suppose tops – Jim or Bones?”

There’s a rumble of laughter, and Karl’s looking at him fondly.

“Who tops between the totally fictitious characters created by Mr. Roddenberry, you mean?”

“Well yeah. You or me?”

Karl leans over him to get the lube and drizzles it across two fingers. He thinks a moment. “Me, I mean – Bones.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Besides, what’s that got to do with the price of fish?” Chris frowns at the strange expression. “D’you think we should have discussed this with JJ to, you know, give a bit more depth to our performances?” Karl’s teasing him; fine, this makes it all sound less stupid – maybe.

“It’s important. Also obvious. It has to be Jim – why else would he smuggle Jim onto the ship, risk everything?” Chris taps the end of Karl’s cock lightly, “He needs Kirk’s cock _bad_.”

Karl sighs and sits back on his heels, “Okay, first of all he’s straight.”

“Like you are, sure.” Chris puts his hands behind his head.  
“Yes – he’s been married. Why would he suddenly ‘turn’?”  
Chris narrows his eyes, ignores the flicker of doubt in his throat. “He hasn’t turned; it’s the 23rd century. People are omni-sexual.”

“That sounds unhygienic,” Karl chuckles, “but, I guess Kirk is kind of hot – as you Americans would say – and, if you were _likely_ to turn in the first place, _he_ might be the catalyst…”

A lubed middle finger circles Chris’ hole, and he raises his ass up to help.

“So, it’s a sex thing?” Chris ventures. “They’re fuck buddies?”

Chris grunts when another finger slides in and out, and somehow he manages to keep his hands behind his head, ignoring his ramrod cock trying to telepathically message to him that he needs to jerk off _now_ , dammit.

Karl has that indulgent look on his face, the one he wears when he listens to Chris ramble on about shit, about baseball, for example, (which Karl just refuses to get), but Karl’s nothing if patient; he can listen to Chris all day, as long as Chris entertains him by allowing Karl to lick long circles round his navel, suck his fingers, as long as Chris wears his glasses, he’ll be patient as anything. Chris can talk all he wants, as long as they don’t actually _talk_.

“They’re just friends,” Karl decides, raising an eyebrow to watch what’ll show on Chris’ face when he—

“Oh, fuck.”

Two fingers breach him, and Chris has to clutch at the sheets, raising one side up around him like a hammock, letting the cotton go when Karl withdraws again.

“I think they’re hot for each other,” Chris says, grabbing Karl’s wrist, pulling him further up the bed, “and I’m pretty sure the captain tops, and McCoy fucking loves it.”

Karl looks to the side, thinks about this, slicks up his cock and scoots up between Chris’ legs, which he guides around his back.

“I suppose the thought of the two of them together is kind of hot. And I’m pretty sure _McCoy_ would drive,” Karl voice is low, deep.

He’s nudging the tip of his cock against him, when something occurs to Chris. “There’s probably a fight for dominance, half the time in bed –”

“Are you talking about Jim and Bones again?” Karl says shaking his head.

Karl begins a slow push, looking down at his cock as it makes its way past the outer ring of muscle then back up to Chris to enjoy his response, the way he gasps way too loudly to be cool as the familiar burn takes hold. He tightens his legs around Karl’s back, wonders whether he should stroke himself, but that would mean he’d come before Karl was fully inside him.

“Fuck that’s so good – so fucking good,”

“Is it?” a beat and then Karl adds, “Captain?” Karl’s raised an eyebrow, expression serious, and he’s slipped into his so-called American accent. Chris loves the way Karl’s mouth changes shape when he plays with the longer vowels. He looks kind of pouty.

He’s not quite sure how to respond, so Chris stops thinking and just says quietly, “I could lose my command—”

He half expects Karl to keel over, slap him upside the head or something, call him an idiot, but instead he’s growling, fucking _growling_. “Your command ends when I’ve got my cock up your ass, _Captain_.”

And he thrusts all the way in, and Chris arches towards him. Not for the first time he thinks how when Karl ‘switches on’ McCoy; it’s like his face is transformed from black and white to color.

Karl’s eyes are closed, and he fucks him a little harder with long, agonizing strokes. “Brat,” he chokes out, and Chris doesn’t know if this is supposed to be Karl or Bones, but he just doesn’t care – it feels so fucking good. He tightens his grip on Karl’s arms.

“In…sub…ordin-ation…” Chris grumbles, his voice a grunt-tremble with every push against his prostate.

“So put me in the brig,” Karl is on a roll now, and Chris is too but in a different way. He knows somewhere deep in his mind, this game probably means something, even if it’s just for him, and he wants to make the most of it. Karl’s drunk enough to play, and he’s going to strike while the iron’s hot, burning even.

He suddenly unclamps his legs from Karl’s back and shoves him hard, sends him sprawling off the bed and is rewarded with a priceless, unscripted, WTF? expression.

Chris stands on the bed and looks down at him, one hand on his hip in what he figures must be a captainly stance, though he doubts it’s what Zach would call it.

“Insubordination, Doctor,” he smirks. Chris hadn’t known he could smirk with intent like this, but he’s practiced in the mirror, needed to so he could get The Shat Essence _down_ , and he’s a good study. The smirk’s gonna get Karl pissed – even he’s not so laid back that he’ll put up with shit like this. And Chris can see it’s made him mad; he’s glowering up at him, hands white knuckled, eyes dark and unblinking. Or maybe it’s McCoy who’s mad?

Karl’s cock bounces against his belly when he pulls himself up. He strides onto the bed and glowers at him. Chris is so fucking turned on he’s rooted to the spot. Then—

“Show me what you got,” he hears himself say, cocking his head to the side.

“Goddamn, _uppity_ , baby-faced—” And Chris is so surprised by the Southern drawl, which is pretty hot, he has to admit, that he’s inadvertently given Karl/Bones an opportunity for an in.

Karl attacks.

He grabs at Chris’ ass, and flips him onto his back; the two of them land in a bony heap with an oof; the mattress bounces then settles under them.

Chris can’t help but laugh uncontrollably when Karl grabs at his wrists and scissors them across Chris’ chest, kneeling on his thighs and that fucking _hurts_. But Chris isn’t struggling too hard, not when, if he loses this tussle, Karl’s face, his fucking luscious mouth, will be closer to his. But he wants to maintain some semblance of command, so he pushes back, makes Karl work for it. His wrists are burning under Karl’s grip, and he’s a little surprised at himself – why’s this turning him on so much? He really should concentrate because now Karl’s twisted Chris half onto his side so he can get at a butt-cheek. The raspberry is too much.

“Hey! _Bones_!”

Karl ignores him. Chris is flat on his belly now, and he can feel Karl’s hair, the rasp of his stubble, his evil tongue, moving down his spine, towards his ass again. Chris’ heartbeat pounds in his throat, and he can hear himself moaning. Karl’s pinned both his hands behind his back – his long fingers managing to encircle both his wrists while his free hand pins Chris’ hip to the mattress. Chris jiggles a bit, so he can get some friction on his cock.

“You spend way too much time in the gym—” He breathes hard, pushing against Karl, any part of him that’s connecting with him, and if it looks like he’s trying to get away, well – win/win.

“And you’re complaining why exactly?” Still with the drawl – well, he’s _not_ complaining. There’s not many who can boast a lover who has two drop dead accents to tease him with.

Chris is wondering if he should fight back some more, prove who’s in charge here, but then he feels Karl’s warm breath against the curve of his ass and next his tongue’s lathing at Chris’ asshole; whatever strength he did possess melts into the sheets.

“Jesus fuck – _oh_ God, don’t stop, _Jesus_ ,” Chris’ voice is almost a whine, he’s helpless as every nerve in his ass hits the red zone at the relentless assault of that probing, flicking tongue, “ _Seriously_ , stop!”

“Is that an order? _Captain_?”

If he says that one more time, Chris _will_ lose it, straight into the sheets, and that would be a waste.

“Hold on, just a second –”

Karl – Bones, whatever – is an ornery bastard, so Chris isn’t surprised when that wicked tongue darts into his ass, wet and long and hot and _shit_ –

“Seriously, I’m going to come, fuck—”

There’s another chuckle behind him. “And that’s bad because?”

Chris winces; the Kiwi accent is back. He blows out a long breath to grapple at what’s left of his self-control, dips his head down, raises his ass, takes a deep breath and makes a break for it, bracing his arms, a weak attempt at dislodging Karl.

“Jeez – you weigh like a fucking ton— _metric_ —”

Chris huffs back onto his face when Karl slides a wrist under Chris’ armpit, the other across his shoulder, then clasps his hands in a tight lock, his forearm pressing Chris’ face back into the pillow. Karl’s breath is hot against his ear.

“You’re not Captain here—” Karl drawls against his temple.

“I—” Shit this is hot, that fucking _voice_ ; he tries to work his hand under his belly to yank at his cock, but Karl’s having none of it.

“No you don’t. I’m gonna sit up, and I want you to turn onto your back. Can you do that without strugglin’?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s my boy—”

“Hey – Bones has a really big cock!” Chris smirks, looking up at Karl straddled across his stomach, watching him reach for the lube, his bangs flopping across a sweat-covered forehead.

“Here – slick up!” Karl drawls.

Chris squirts the lube onto his hands, reaches for Karl’s cock and yelps when Karl bats his hand away. _Oh_ — that’s how it’s gonna be, is it? He was wondering why they needed more lube. He slides his hand gently – just to annoy him – up and down slowly, twisting when he gets to the head, grinning at the look of irritation in ‘the doctor’s’ eyes.

Karl cants towards him, shifts so he can lower his ass onto Chris. They haven't done this before, it’s just never happened, and now he’s licking his lips, thinking about paps, Keenser – in and out of costume – _anything_ that’s going to help him last another five precious minutes.

Karl’s hips are smooth under his hands, shifting as he finds the best angle, as Chris inches in slow and sure, and then he hears a sharp intake of breath when he guides his cock home. It’s fucking incredible, soaking the sensations up, memorizing the look of rhapsodic pain on Karl’s face, hearing him moan like this.

“Fuck, _yes_ , fuck—” Karl grumbles above him. Chris strokes his ass softly, guiding him down into place, slightly in awe at how this, his cock being inside of him, transforms Karl’s face into something beautiful and abandoned.

When he’s fully seated, Chris takes a moment to help Karl adjust and then twitches up. Karl reaches for his hand and grips hard, regaining his balance. Chris can’t tear his eyes away from those charcoal eyes, that open-mouthed, wanton look.

“Jesus you’re so fucking tight,” he manages to choke out, and Karl’s face softens for a moment; he pulls at the back of Chris’ neck and bends towards him so they’re eyebrow to eyebrow, their breaths mingling.

“Kiss me, for fuck sake,” Chris pleads, his voice a gravelly rasp.

“Is that an order?” Merciless, drawn out vowels, served by a wicked tongue, lathe in and around his ear.

“Sure, yeah, it fucking is.” And Chris pulls his mouth closer, panting against Karl’s lips, overwhelmed by the softness, the sweet pliancy of them, and when Karl’s tongue _finally_ darts into him, he makes a clumsy grab for Karl’s cock and times his tugs with Karl’s tongue fucking his mouth, his hips thrusting upwards. He can feel Karl’s eyes scrunching shut, how his breaths are shorter, moans erratic, and Chris increases the speed of his hand's twisting and tugging at Karl’s cock.

“Is that good?”

“Yeah –” He puffs out through gritted teeth.

“Come on, come for me, come—” He whispers, and Karl lurches his head away and begins raising and lowering himself onto Chris, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen; he has to concentrate to keep his eyes open so he can enjoy this and strokes his free hand up and down Karl’s lower back, murmuring encouragement.

“Come on, Bon— _baby_ , let me see you—”

“Right there, _oh God_ , right _there_.” And Karl’s mouth falls open, his head tips back, then he’s rolling his chin on his chest, riding out a long and noisy orgasm.

Chris feels an emptiness when Karl lifts away and then a surge of joy when Karl’s lying down on his side, guiding Chris above him so they’ve switched and Chris is on top.

“Fuck me,” Karl’s still panting, his pupils shot wide, his lips swollen, and Chris doesn’t wait to be invited again. He kneels up, hoists a long leg over his shoulder, and guides his cock into Karl, one easy glide making Karl grunt when he hits his sweet spot again. Fuck, he’s beautiful like this; Karl’s arms are behind his head, pressing against the headboard, and he looks relaxed, thoughtful, lost. His lips twitch each time Chris pushes in.

“So, you gonna put me in the brig, Captain?” Karl grins, and he’s got no right to do that, to be so damn sexy and playful and—

“Fuck, so good.” Chris is close, so damn close, and he pushes Karl’s leg down to grip around his back so he has room to lean forward. He _needs_ those lips on him again, wants to come like this – with Karl’s breath filling _his_ lungs so that he’s in Karl and Karl’s in him somehow; he needs to get closer.

A ridiculous thought floats across his mind; would it be like this between Jim and his friend, he wonders. Would _they_ have the same chemistry, and he’s almost going to giggle at this but then Karl mutters,

“ _Fuck me_ , Jim, fuck me harder.”

And he knows it’s a tease in a way, that Karl’s just trying to make things hot, but Chris is so fucking confused by the sound of that treacle rich baritone, the feel of long fingers on his face, his chest, the back of his neck, and sweat trickling into his eyes. His balls tighten, and he’s surging forward, into Karl, _taking_ him, _owning_ him for the length of his orgasm at least, and his mouth searches for Karl’s tongue to ground him, stop him from falling into a place he isn’t sure he wants to go, but it’s too late. A rush of blood to the head and good sense skitters away like silver fish under harsh light, and _stupid_ words, a joke – yes, that’s what it is, he doesn’t mean it, he thinks when he hears himself gasp,

“ _Fuck_ , love you, Bones, _love_ you.”

And he comes so hard, so long that the length of his love-worn body twists from his balls to his shoulders to his toes from the relief and shock.

Neither of them speak for a while.

Chris has lost all feeling in his wrists, and he thinks his cock may have dissolved between them. The pleasant lull, the gentle scrape of Karl’s nails in the short hairs at the back of his neck is soothing him, making him feel less like a dick.

“I didn’t know you had a thing for doctors,” Karl finally says, kissing his wrist, pulling Chris in for a long, sweet kiss.

A _Karl_ kink, he thinks – but whatever.

“Who says I do?”

“Well, I know this bloke called Jim and he assures me— _oi_!”

Maybe Chris had smacked him across the top of the head a little hard, but _really_ , Dr. McCoy needs to learn to show some respect. Chris lets out a laugh but decides to keep that thought to himself.

They lie side by side, fingers intertwined, staring up at the ceiling. He can hear traffic noise as LA wakes. A knot’s formed in his throat.

“What time’s your plane?” he manages.

“Late,” Karl clears his throat, squeezes his fingers tighter.

“So no need to rush off?” Chris turns towards him, slides his leg over Karl’s, brings a hand up to Karl’s chest and edges a little closer.

“No, not just yet.”

Karl turns off the lamp, and they wrap their sticky limbs around each other, hidden in the dark, away from what’s out there. Chris squeezes his eyes shut, inhales Karl deep into himself and hopes that, tonight at least, he can sleep.

~FIN~


End file.
